


No/Nay/Never (Circle One)

by ThisAintBC



Series: Star-Spangled Heart [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Rare Pairings, The Softest Of Bros, Typical Hockey Violence, no actual hockey depicted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-28 02:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18202271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisAintBC/pseuds/ThisAintBC
Summary: “Look—look, kid, being the first one to come out isn’t very smart,” he said. “But—we’re hockey players. No one ever asked us to be smart.”(Kent's always idolized Rocket Richard. This isn't quite what he meant.)





	No/Nay/Never (Circle One)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flannelgiraffe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flannelgiraffe/gifts).



> My apologies to Mark Smithbauer.

Adam was down.

Adam was down, and he was bleeding, and he wasn’t getting up.

 

—

 

It’s not that he’s having a bad day.

If anything, all signs pointed to his life being pretty good—a cute boyfriend, a good job, a paycheck beyond his wildest teenage dreams, well on his way toward rewriting a few new records. He isn’t hungover or exhausted, he'd had a good night's sleep and a full cup of coffee before hitting the gym and then grabbing a burrito. His cat has finally adjusted to his new place and for once the milk in his fridge is unexpired. Sure, he isn’t exactly thrilled that they’re playing his ex's team next week, but it's not like Jack still features in his emotional landscape in any significant way except when they actually sit down in front of each other and methodically dig knives into the scars of old wounds in the name of erasing them.

So it isn’t that Kent’s having a bad day, because that would imply that there was something in all of that to complain about. By anyone else’s measure, he’s having a great day, fantastic even. But Kent feels like he’s having a bad day, and when it comes down to it that’s almost the same thing.

“What do you mean, you can’t make it?” He grumbles into his phone, irritation itching at his spine.

“‘M sorry babe,” Adam soothes, “it’s just—this PR event—it’s been scheduled for months and I don’t think I can get out of it.”

“No, I know, I just-” Kent sighs. “I’m just having a bad day, okay?”

Adam makes a noise that Kent knows is the lead-in to Adam’s idea of cheering him up, long rambling overly-cheerful soliloquies about hockey culture and vocabulary and Don Cherry, so he hastily adds, “Next time, huh? Try not to get too drunk, there’s practice tomorrow and if you think I’m letting you off easy just because they’re PR-mandated drinks you’re dead wrong.”

There isn’t nearly enough static to blame the lag on poor reception, but all he says is “Yes, captain!” so apparently they’re letting it slide for now.

 

—

 

Kent sat next to the hospital bed, his fingers curled around the edges of the sheets. “You’ll be okay,” he whispered. Adam couldn’t hear him, but Adam never doubted himself anyways—always so sure, so loud and so tall and so happy. Adam could take up an entire room just by himself and paid attention to Kent like the sun really did orbit the earth after all.

“I can’t do this again,” and he was surprised to discover that no, he wasn’t crying after all, “I can’t do this again, so you will be okay, you get me?”

There was a noise behind him, and Kent closed his eyes, refused to look. The universe hated him, and so really there was only person it could be. He was not up for coping with more than one emotional emergency at a time. “Leave,” he said, not an ounce of inflection in his voice, and the door slid shut.

 

—

 

It had taken them this long to figure out how to live around each other’s rough edges, but it was like the riot had been some sort of reset button. Kent cannot figure out how to be comfortable in Adam’s presence again, so he does what he does best and avoids him. Adam pouts after him in the locker room like he never had after that first disastrous kiss, but he hasn’t replied to any of Kent’s texts with more than an emoji for a solid month so Kent figures they’re reading the same book even if they’re not on the same page.

So Kent can’t be blamed, really, for hesitating a little when he finds a handsome man laughing uproariously on his couch, Adam’s glasses perched on his nose, Kit hissing gently from her spot across the room and Adam nowhere to be found.

“Hi,” he tries, aiming for dry.

“Hi!” Adam’s head pops out of the kitchen, a grin lighting up his face. “Sorry, your place was closer, and-” Kent waves him off; he’d given him a key for a reason, and he told him as much.

“I’m Justin,” the man on the couch offers, walking over to shake hands. “Nice place, man.”

Kent introduces himself—probably unnecessarily, but maybe not—and flops onto the couch, scooping up a protesting Kit. He tipped his head back and let the sound of Adam and Justin laughing and chirping each other wash over him, indulging the burning in his chest.

“What’s for dinner?” He finally drawls, and shit, that must have been way off-topic because they’re both looking at him now.

“Parser…” Adam’s aiming for concerned, he can tell, but there was still too much laughter in his voice to quite hit that mark. Kent squeezes his eyes shut briefly, and swings around to face him, grinning.

“Pizza? Again, Adam?” And that does the trick—Adam’s shoulders loosen and his friend was off, talking about pizza being a better food option for athletes than most people believed. Yeah, sure, try telling that to the NHL.

Kent makes it through the evening somehow, but he isn’t sure he’s ever been quite so happy to show Adam the door when Justin finally starts to make noises about work the next morning. He trails after them to the entryway, but when he sees the glint in Adam’s eyes, the way he’s angling his head, he turns to Justin abruptly. Justin is delighted by his offer of an autograph, and Kent winds up signing the shirt he’s wearing before laughing and pushing them both out into the night.

It was the first time he’d point-blank refused to kiss Adam, and he didn’t even have the good grace to be up front about it, but Kent’s done with being mature and reasonable. Time for cold pizza and _Mary Tyler Moore_.

 

—

 

After the nurses had kicked him out of the hospital room that first night, the police officers stationed outside had refused to let him back in. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bit relieved, to instead go home and fuss over Kit and put in extra hours at the rink. To stare at old reruns and NatGeo documentaries like they held some kind of secret he was on the verge of figuring out.

Jesus. Adam deserved more than this, he told himself, but he was who he was and there was nothing for it. Adam deserved more and so did Kent, but giving himself time and space to process had been working so well so far and the last thing he wanted to do was to fuck this up the way he had last time.

Adam deserved more. It was like a lullaby, the last thing he saw before he closed his eyes at night. The league somehow came to the conclusion not to change anything, and so they were playing the Schooners again on Wednesday.

Really, they should have known better, but then again Kent had never had someone else to blame for his boyfriend being in the hospital before either.

 

—

 

After the not-dinner with Justin, Adam falls off the map, but they are still on the same team. Even passing the puck seems like too intimate a connection at this point, the way Kent’s fear and anger seems to be mirrored in Adam’s eyes.

“Head in the game, Birker!” he barks, and Adam just nods. Shit.

“Go Wildcats!” Echoes across the ice, but from the wrong direction and a minute too late. That voice—what the fuck was Justin doing here?

“Interviewing, brah,” he explains when Kent skates over at the end of practice. “You need a new team doctor, don’t you?”

They do. Kent thinks he would probably really like Justin if he wasn’t too busy hating him for somehow having both the best and worst timing. “I hope you get it,” he offers, and surprises himself by meaning it.

Adam thumps against the railing, all cheerful smiles that don’t reach his eyes. “Hey bro!” He greets. Justin offers his fist for a surprisingly elaborate handshake. Kent shakes his head and skates off, waving goodbye. He can feel Adam’s eyes following him, but what can he do about it?

Jeff side-eyes him when he shows up in the locker room alone, but Kent’s not planning on talking anytime soon.

 

—

 

They were calling it the Rainbow Riot, on twitter. Kent could scarcely believe what was going on—their plane had touched down in Vegas and they’d been told that they couldn’t leave the airport, and while Stoner grumbled Kent dug out his phone and saw what the internet had to say.

What the internet had to say was that Vegas had turned out, in strength, for their adopted son. Kent would probably be flattered once he got over the shock.

The pictures were stark—shattered glass, men and women and folks inbetween marching down the street, arms locked, a girl in a pride shirt defiantly hurling a hockey puck at a line of riot police. A lucky overhead shot of T-Mobile Arena, surrounded by protesters. Before anyone could stop him, Kent quickly typed out _Thank you for the support, but pls go be safe at home! Don’t want anyone getting injured/arrested over this._ and then PMed someone who seemed like an organizer offering to help put up bail but also emphasizing that yes, he’s serious, they should go home.

She shot back _Stonewall was a riot_ , to which he replied _I’m not Marsha Johnson_. Her response was that _this isn’t about you_ , which would be fair if it wasn’t, you know, about him.

The rioting didn’t stop. He hoped Adam was too high on painkillers to notice.

(Kent's always idolized Rocket Richard. This isn't quite what he meant.)

 

—

 

Adam catches him in the parking lot—literally, he grabs Kent’s bag and refuses to let go.

“I love you, man,” he admits, which is too much. Kent turns his head away and does everything he can to keep his fucking mouth shut for once in his life. Adam seems to get it, and backs off, just a little, just enough. “Let me drive you home?”

Kent’s in no shape to drive, not after that, and so he agrees. In hindsight he could easily have caught a ride home with Stoner, or Donnie, or Hammer. In the moment all he can see, even looking the other way, is the desperation on Adam’s face.

Adam walks him to his door, and then lingers, ready to leave, clearly hoping for an invite. Kent doesn’t offer one but also doesn’t close the door behind him.

“I get that you’ve got some kind of history that makes this hard,” Adam offers, “but I love you, dude. I love you. Please don’t leave me over this.”

And shit, Adam’s crying, Kent’s really gone and screwed this up _again_. But-

“Me leave you?” He asks, and by all rights it should be a whisper but by the end it’s a shout. “Me leave you?”

“I’m really sorry about what happened.” Adam bulldozes on. “It wasn’t fair, that they tried to suspend you, and I’m sorry that you got hurt like that, I know that - that this isn’t what you wanted, that you didn’t want to be out, but - ”

“Adam.” Is all he can manage. “Adam, stop, don’t do this, I…”

“-I love you so much. I can’t take it back or quit for you but-”

“Adam. Shut up.” He does, blinking, tears running down his face. Kent closes his eyes and throws his head back into the wall, just once. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t there, okay? I totally freaked out and then I made the whole thing worse by going after that asshole during the next game and I’m sorry that I made this about me instead. I’m sorry, I should’ve been there, I shouldn’t have tried to deal with this on my own, please stop blaming yourself because this is _all my fault._ ”

Slowly, Adam gathers him into his arms, mumbling about loving him into Kent’s hair. He attaches to Kent’s side like some kind of leech, settling into him when Kent slowly guides them to the couch and flicks on the tv. Kent strokes his hair gently and lets him cry himself out, glad that Adam’s face is buried in his shirt so he can’t see the tears Kent isn’t bothering to hold back anymore. Kit curls up on the armrest, clearly annoyed that his lap is already occupied, and pretends to fall asleep.

At some point, the way Adam is clutching at his ribs loosens, and slowly morphs into gentle petting. He strokes a gentle finger up and down Kent’s side, under his shirt. Kent shifts a little, but then he feels the way Adam is grinning into his chest and huffs in mock-outrage. He shoves Adam back and kisses him, maybe a little too roughly, and then dumps him onto the floor as he stands.

“Bedroom’s this way,” he lets his voice come across just a little more breathless than is probably believable for a pro athlete, all sultry lashes and languid vowels. Adam springs up and wraps himself around Kent's back, nipping and sucking at his neck in a way that’s certain to leave a hickey. Kent groans, throwing his head back, and gives up on doing this in a bed. At least he lives in the penthouse—making the tabloids for the third month in a row would be worth it, if he didn’t, but just barely. He turns around in Adam’s arms and lets himself fall back, pulling both of them onto the floor. Adam knocks the breath out of him when he lands on top of him, and Kent flails a little in a decidedly unsexy way. Kit yowls her disapproval when one of his arms almost knocks her off the couch.

Adam’s chuckling into his collarbone, and Kent finally manages to figure out where all of his limbs are. The erection pressing against his thigh is even harder than it was before, so chalk one up for friction, he guesses. Laughing, he pulls Adam into another kiss, sneaking a hand down into his sweatpants and grinning when he hears his breath catch. Oh yeah, definitely worth it.

They end up falling asleep right there on his living room floor, finally making it to his bed around six in the morning when the brilliant sunrise wakes them both up. It’s as good an excuse for lazy morning sex as anything. Jeff wiggles his eyebrows and smirks at him when they both show up late for practice.

 

—

 

PR called him at 4am, and then again at 5. “What?” He snarled when he finally picked up at 5:30.

“They’ve made a decision,” the poor intern they made wake him up told him, his voice shaky. Kent hung up on him—he’d feel guilty about it, or not, later—and rolled out of bed and into his sweatpants.

“You better have coffee,” was the only thing he said to the woman who was waiting for him in some half-abandoned rec room. The crowd outside had cheered when he showed up, and the cops would’ve taken his head off if the intern hadn’t been standing by the entrance and run out to shepherd him in once he got close enough.

She didn’t say anything, just pushed a steaming mug toward him. He sipped it, not bothering to hide a grimace. “Starbucks was invented for a reason, you know.”

“Mr. Parson.” And yep, there he was, standing in the doorway. “Quite a mess you’ve made us.” The Aces had a couple owners but only one Owner, and if he was here it wasn’t anything good.

“So they’re booting me,” he drawled, mind racing. “And you want me to pacify the crowd?”

“No, Mr. Parson. Almost the opposite.”

The PR lady, Gloria, walked him through his script seven times before she was happy with his delivery, and then handed him an outfit to change into and a comb. “Do something about this,” she told her trembling intern, and Kent rolled his eyes and decided to take pity on the kid.

“Just go get me some decent coffee, okay?” The kid nodded frantically and ran out the door. Kent figured it was even odds whether he’d ever see him again.

Sure enough, the kid still hadn’t returned with his coffee by the time they were sitting down in the press room. The room exploded with noise when he walked in, which gradually died down when he clearly wasn’t saying anything.

Gloria cleared her throat. “The league and the Las Vegas Aces management have decided, in light of the extraordinary circumstances and the extremely vile and threatening language used by the other player in question, to not suspend Kent Parson at this time.”

The room erupted, but she continued. “Mr. Parson will be advised to see a counselor following this incident, although his participation in this is entirely voluntary. A decision has not been reached yet on what to do about Mr. Smithbauer of the Seattle Schooners.” She paused, scanned the room, and readjusted her jacket subtly. “Mr. Parson will give his statement at this time.”

“I am grateful to the league for their leniency,” he started, and Gloria looked back at him with stern approval, “and hope to avoid incidents like this in the future. Violence has no place in hockey,” and he couldn’t help the sarcasm that crept into his voice anymore than several of the reporters seemed to be able to control the way their eyebrows flew up at that, “and I will endeavor to do better in the future.”

“But,” he continued, keeping his eyes on Gloria, “I think the real violence in this sport is the way people treat it, and each other.” A murmur ran through the room, and Gloria frowned and shook her head subtly at him but made no move toward him. “I’m not any kind of activist, but if you think I’m going to sit around and let my teammates get threatened and even hospitalized for who they date, I don’t know what player you think you’ve been watching.” Gloria made a move for his mic, but he yanked it back. “I’m no goon, but if you come after my boys I’ll come after you.”

“Mr. Parson!” called a reporter, “Mr. Parson, do you have any response to Mr. Smithbauer’s allegations?”

Kent’s knuckles were white around the edge of the table, but he managed to roll his eyes. “What, that I’m gay too? That the only reason I could possibly care about what happens to my teammates is if I’m having sex with them? My personal life isn’t anyone’s business, especially not Smithbauer’s. Now if you’ll excuse me, my boyfriend just got out of the hospital and I’m not going to leave that idiot alone to trip over his furniture.”

And with his face in the parody of a smile, he ducked out of the room. The intern found him sitting in the bathroom, his head between his knees, and silently offered him a coffee. Caramel frap; it would have to do.

 

—

 

Adam gives much better speeches than Kent does, and has the gift of getting reporters to like him and not just respect what he can do on the ice, and already has contacts at LGBT magazines and clubs across the country. They call it the Birkholtz Rule.

Kent doesn’t mind that Adam gets the credit; all he did was throw a punch and barely manage not to have a panic attack on live television. He wouldn’t even really say that he’s proud that he was there, because if it had never happened at all that probably would’ve been fine with him. The league is still fucked up beyond belief, but at least they’ve got a standard they have to hold people to, now. Kent still gets the occasional free coffee or burrito pressed on him by kids with cotton candy hair and plaid shirts, and a couple parents complain when he shows up to play with the baby Aces, but mostly the NHL seems happy to help people forget his part in the whole mess by shining the spotlight on Adam.

Turns out Justin makes a killer beer pong partner. He’s actually pretty chill, which is good since he basically lives on Kent’s couch at this point. Adam’s just glad that Kent got over the thing with the glasses. Kit’s still withholding judgment, though.

It happens, eventually, at the grocery store of all places. Jeff and his minivan are helping Kent make the kind of Costco run that would make his mother proud, and he’s wandering around the store trying the free samples when Adam calls. Apparently he’s out of sriracha, and it’s the end of the world or something.

“Oh! And can you get those tiny cheesecakes? Man, those are to die for.”

“Okay, okay, a lifetime’s supply of sriracha and tiny cheesecakes. Anything else…?”

“Nope—well, maybe some pizza rolls?”

“Alright, got it, pizza rolls. You better help me lug all of this stuff upstairs if you’re expecting me to buy shit for you.”

“I’ll meet you guys at your place in like an hour then?”

“Sounds good, see you then. Okay. Love you, bye.”

It doesn’t even register what he’s said until he hangs up and sees Jeff staring at him, a wild grin slowly spreading across his face.

“Did you just-”

“No. I didn’t. Shut up.”

Damn it, Kent’s never going to hear the end of this. Sure enough, Adam and Jeff do a dramatic reenactment the next morning in the locker room for the benefit of the entire team, who howl their delight. Kent throws his water bottle at them, but lets Adam drag him into a corner after practice all the same.

He does love him, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the traditional folk song "The Wild Rover".
> 
> Thanks to [flannelgiraffe](http://flannelgiraffe.tumblr.com/) and [sewingfrommagic](http://sewingfrommagic.tumblr.com/) for beta reading/emotional support while I wrote this. Especially flannelgiraffe - I've been promising you this fic for almost three years now. Here it is!
> 
> The events of this fic were very, very loosely inspired by the real-life [Richard Riot](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Riot). 
> 
> I have not been to a Costco for over a decade; I have no idea if they carry sriracha, or tiny cheesecakes, but I definitely remember the samples.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://missionlameturtle.tumblr.com/) and [dreamwidth](https://thisaintbc.dreamwidth.org/).


End file.
